Wednesday, January 7, 2004

Sometimes I'm happy, sometimes I'm blue

I took the blue hand of the blue girl, after she had collected her box and basket, and led her through the tunnel to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. She drew close to me, and as we moved we did not speak. I brought her out into the land of air, onto Eighth Avenue, and we walked toward the Hudson, a river.

AND NOW the answer to the age-old question: WHAT’S IT LIKE TO FUCK A BLUE PERSON?

We stood at the corner of Ninth Avenue and infinity. “What do you want to do?” I asked the blue girl. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”

She looked at me gravely. “I thought you had something in mind,” she said.

“Well, let’s get a drink downtown,” I suggested, “at the multi-star hot spot, the Maritime Hotel. Any objections?”

“No, that sounds good,” she said, “just don’t forcefeed me curaçao or something. My drink’s The Macallen.”

With the majestic River Spey in mind, and the hailing of a cab meant for others, we were off to our final destination of 2003, a floundering in-spot on Sixteenth Street, once reserved for sailors, and then for pedophiles, but now a hotel. In all three cases, buggery was possible. Amazing how genius loci can transcend real estate trends.

I walked in with the blue girl on my arm, pressing blue against me. “Hey,” I said to the bouncer, “how are my friends Eric Goode (of Area/Club MK/Bowery Bar fame) and Sean MacPherson (Swingers/Jones/El Carmen in L.A.), your Maritime Hotel employers? Are they having a Happy New Year? Are you?”

He ushered us into the bar, a hot and loud circus of the last-ditch efforts of many. The blue girl sat on a stool provided for that purpose and I hovered near her ominously. I called out for a bottle of The Macallen and two of The Glasses. I poured a little Scotch into her glass but then I stopped.

“Look,” I said to her, “I want to thank you for coming with me tonight. I was feeling lonely, and I left my apartment, but when I saw you I didn’t feel lonely any more. Not because you made me feel less lonely. Because, seeing you, I forgot about my usual thoughts. I started thinking about your performance, your still, still, soundless performance, and what it must mean. I transferred my focus to you, with awe, with breathless — “

I started pouring her drink again, and then poured mine. I lifted my glass, and she lifted hers. I continued, ” — appreciation. Thought. Concern. Focus. I want to thank you for being here. I think you’re very interesting.”

“Thank you,” she said, “and Happy New Year.”

We clinked and drank. The Macallen is The Suck. “But not yet,” I reminded her. “It’s only ten-forty-five.”

I poured more Scotch into our glasses. “Also, I’d like to point out,” I continued, “that while I find you different and fascinating, different from other women, I still hope to sleep with you, like any other woman.”

She drank her drink. “Well, sure,” she said after a moment, “you’re only human, sort of.”

I grabbed the bottle, filled her glass, and capped it. “Let’s get a New Year’s room.”

After a moment with Kevin at the front desk, Task and his plus-one were cleared for entry. She took my arm in the elevator and drank her Scotch quietly, head against my shoulder. “Did you ever see that movie,” I asked her, “with Glenda Jackson and Michael Caine, where he thinks she’s been unfaithful in an elevator, or lift?”

The blue girl drank her Scotch. “Don’t be vulgar,” she said. “Can we at least get to the room first?”

“It’s just a cinematic reference,” I apologized, as she exited on our floor, and I followed her blue footsteps down the hallway. “It’s just a visual aide.”

Leaning against the doorway, she held her hand out for the key. “I’m a visual person,” I told her.

“I know,” she said. “And I had the visuals for you.” I gave her the keycard, I kissed her, I kissed her blue in the hallway. She put her arms around my neck, scratching me rhythmically with the keycard in her hand. In a moment, we were inside and bouncing off all that décor that someone selected, all that Oscar Niemeyer without the Pritzker and without the talent. I lifted the blue girl up, slightly, momentarily, and then down onto a beige divan, feet squishing down in the from-Soho softness. She looked down at me as I took off her belt, took off her shoes. I put the Scotch on the table by the window, I opened the window the bit it’d go, I poured two full glasses, she was unzipping her toga in the back, she leapt down and kissed me, I went into the bathroom feeling a little overwhelmed.

I washed my face and removed my clothes, the clothes of yesteryear. I looked at the dazed face in the mirror — “yester-me” in the Stevie Wonder parlance — a face trying to look stern and unconcerned, but dazed anyhow. I found some more clothes on me, which I removed, and toweling my face I entered the room again.

Standing in the middle of the floor was the blue girl, naked all over and blue everywhere. She faced away from me, blue, and I came behind her to place a bite on her neck and grab her waist. “Were you born blue?” I murmured into her shoulder. “You’ve certainly come a long way, if not.” My hand and the rest of me came around her to the front. She stared straight ahead, and when I took her hand, I found it, and the other, splayed out in a dramatic hold. I buried my dazed face in her blue hair and put every finger to use from a shoulderblade to a rib. She looked straight ahead and I stood back to get my glass.

I watched her as I drank the last of this glass, and she was naked, and blue, and gorgeous, but nothing was happening. She was a statue again, like when I met her. That suddenly made a lot of sense to me, and putting my empty glass safely on the shag rug, I crouched to grab her legs. I threw her back on the bed, but except for Newtonian forces, she still wasn’t moving. Her arms remained posed like Barbie doing Hamlet, and her legs on the bed were still stretched for a firm place on the ground. A gentle blue halo around her breathing chest was the only mark that her shell was alive. I put a knee on the bed to one side, another knee to the other, and slid down on her with all the weight of 2003.

I’m not colored blue, and I make a nice contrast against those who are. I used whatever limbs I could to make an impression on this frozen girl, and also tongue. She heroically withstood it all — alas, poor Yorick! — and even though non-statues don’t always seem to enjoy sex with me either, I was oddly intrigued that I could act without any kind of response. It was the opposite of what you wanted, and that became an alternate want. I lay across her belly, one elbow in her armpit, drumming on her breast, muttering plenty of aphorisms related to what I was going to do to her. And then, after a step back to have a dram of Scotch, I did all those things, many of them at one time, immediately. And as I dragged her to the edge of the bed, her legs prophetically already the proper distance apart, to find the way inside my blue heaven, I think I saw her eyes shut for a moment, but they were open and glassy in a moment more. I devoted all steam to the fucking of her, the thorough and deserved fucking, and as her Hamlet hands clutched at the ceiling, I coughed out a small sob, almost not there, a cry covered by the cough, almost entirely normal. I felt her compress from the inside, and the blue girl said, “Mmmph.” I smiled a little and didn’t stop, but said, “Happy New Year,” with a glance at her watch on the table. She said “Mmmph” again and a tiny, almost entirely nonexistent tear ran a jagged path down her blue cheek. I had seen her last and first tears of their respective years, and as I leaned down to kiss her very face, her arms crossed around me. She pressed her face in my neck and laid out a measure of blue notes. I pulled back to look at her, and she said quickly, “I love you,” even as her own deep grey eyes grew wide at what she heard. She bit her lip and closed her eyes — which were blue when closed — and said, as a revision, “Thank you.”

The blue girl and I subsided on the rented bed as 2004 crept into everything. I held her, pushing her far into the mattress, and she wrapped everything around me. We both let out crazy sobs, dispelling what we could, and of course then I loved her too.

by Jack, January 7, 2004 9:10 PM | More from Drinking & Women | More from The Blue Girl

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